Hunting in a Winter Wonderland
by X-parrot
Summary: Trouble on a wendigo hunt lands the brothers in hot water — or in Sam's case, a very cold river. (gen brothers h/c)


I categorically deny all responsibility; this is my sister's fault. She drew a beautiful pic (check out the version of this story on AO3 for a working link) and then demanded a fic to accompany. What was I to do?

Set 12th season, sometime after "First Blood" and before "Family Feud."

* * *

"Admit it, you've missed this," Dean says.

And sure, it's mostly to mess with Sam, which works; his brother looks up from the six inches of snow they're trudging through, to glower at Dean through the frost-laced tree trunks. "Yeah, Dean," Sam says, "I really missed hanging out in the backwoods of Minnesota in the middle of winter."

But Dean's grin back isn't actually faked. His toes might be going numb in his work boots, and the weapons bag slung over his shoulder is soaking cold damp into his hip. But they've reached the river, running just past the line of trees beside them, so it's less than half a mile back to the car. And the smell of smoke and ash lingering in the chill air is proof of a job well-done. "Come on, it's been years since we took down a wendigo! And before it got a chance to chow down on anybody, even—that was some great work, tracking the kill pattern. A-plus nerding."

"Yeah, well." Sam shrugs like it's no big deal, but his mouth wriggles as he struggles to hold onto his cold-induced sulk. "The cycle matched the treatise so closely, it was worth checking out."

Dean had been skeptical, when Sam had showed him that find from the bunker library; patterns were one thing, but statistical analyses and distribution tables are a far cry from the hunter norm. And when had the Men of Letters (American, thank you very much) actually had time to research wendigo kills? More likely some guy bullshitting numbers to look good to his boss.

But the treatise's appendix had suggested a couple potential data points to follow up on, and going through some online newspaper archives turned up this one scheduled to go off. Not quite enough of a lead to send another hunter on, but they hadn't had a case themselves. Also snow hadn't been in the weather report, when Sam had suggested it.

Storm or not, Dean's happy they made the trip. It has been a long time, and there's something undeniably satisfying about a straightforward monster hunt, knowing there's a bunch of hikers out there who will come back to their families this year, who wouldn't have otherwise. Killing Hitler, that's an accomplishment for sure, even if Sam will dump snow down the back of his shirt if he mentions it. But this is their job, and regardless of the cold and damp, it's pretty damn awesome.

And Sam's grumbling now, but he was the one who'd whooped when he fired the flare gun, catching the monster square in its ugly-ass head. Then acted all cool and professional, methodically stamping down the area around the burning corpse so the brush wouldn't catch, as if he thought Dean hadn't heard.

"So how many other treatises are in that box?" Dean asks. "Anything on changeling patterns? Or—"

"Dean," Sam says, low and short, and Dean instantly halts. Sam's stopped, too, standing between the trees with his head cocked. Without the crunch of their boots, the snowy woods are quiet. It's still mid-afternoon, patches of gray sky showing between the leafless black branches overhead, but the only sounds are the whisper of a breeze and the murmur of the river to their right, slowed by ice to a trickle. No birds or chattering squirrels.

Silence, broken by a rustle—dead leaves moving, off to the left, except the wind has died. "Shit," Dean mutters through clenched teeth, dropping his hand to the weapons bag. The zipper's hiss is loud as he yanks it open. Hadn't bothered reloading the flare guns, but the shotgun hadn't been fired. Double barrels at close range will give them a fighting chance.

He grabs the shotgun, tosses it to Sam without looking as he digs through the bag for the flare cartridges. There's another rustle—around ten o'clock, and closer? It sounds closer—and the harsh clack of the shotgun's slide. Dean finds the box of cartridges, lets the bag slip off his shoulder into the snow as he pops the flare gun's slide, adrenaline working through cold-clumsy fingers.

He's just jammed in the round when everything goes flying. The monster rams into him head-on—mass times speed equals the force of a pick-up truck; Dean is bowled over, on his back in the snow, gnashing teeth and rancid breath in his face. He throws a punch but while it connects, square in the bastard's jerky-skinned chin, the wendigo doesn't flinch. Its toothy mouth gapes wider to take a bite out of his shoulder.

There's a percussive crash, the deafening boom of a shotgun at close range, and the wendigo gives a screech, rearing back. Hot blood spatters across his face as Dean scrambles away in the icy snow, rolling to reach for the fallen flare gun.

Over his head, the shotgun thunders again, and the wendigo howls. Shakes its head, casting off blood like a wet dog; but its snarl is more pissed off than mortally wounded. It's glaring at Sam, but when Dean cocks the flare pistol, it whips around, faster than he can raise the gun, grabs his leg and yanks him in. Teeth bared again, and this time it's just going for his throat. With its grip on his arm, Dean can't even bring up his elbow to get torn up instead.

"Get off him!" Sam bellows, and smashes the stock of the shotgun into the back of the wendigo's head.

He puts all his weight into it, a blow that could've caved in a human skull. And the wendigo already took two shotgun slugs. It yowls again, strangled, wounded. Drops Dean and goes for the bigger target.

Sam's already leaping back—drawing it away, giving Dean an opening. He fumbles to bring up the flare gun, making himself focus on the wendigo, not his brother about to get chomped—breathes out sharp to steady his hands, and pulls the trigger.

The flare hits the monster in the back, between the shoulders. It screams, loud as the shotgun blast, as the flames blaze up over its body, burning limbs flailing.

Behind it, Sam lurches back to avoid that fiery spasm. Dean, watching him through the blaze, has a split second to register the change in his brother's expression, from strained relief to startled surprise.

Then Sam is gone—just gone, vanished like a coin in a sleight-of-hand trick.

"Sam!" Dean launches to his feet, only to stumble at the burst of unexpected pain shooting up his leg. He glares down at the blood spreading through his torn jeans—the wendigo's claws caught him across the calf. Probably will need some shot or other for that, but nothing's broken, and he's barely limping as he circles around the smoldering corpse.

His wildly thumping heart slows as he realizes the secret to Sam's disappearing act. They were closer to the river than he thought; just past the wendigo, the forest floor drops away into the riverbank. Sam stepped wrong in the snow, went off the edge. But it's not exactly the Grand Canyon, only six feet or so of frozen clay, and the river below should be hardly more than a stream.

Except it's deeper here, narrowing as it bends around the forest, and when Dean leans over the edge, he doesn't see a muddy brother waving back up at him. Doesn't see anything below but jagged-edged gray ice over black water.

"Sam!" he shouts again, but only the rush of the river answers. Dean's first instinct is to dive, but he checks it—he can't tell how deep the water below is, but it's racing; he could get dragged under the thicker sheet of ice gathered at the bank. Like Sam might have been, and Dean grabs hold of a stubby sapling, leans out to scan the water.

Amid the churning ice downstream, where the river bends again, there's a flash of darker green, and Dean takes off toward it, skidding down the clay bank to the water's edge. But it's not Sam—just his jacket, caught against a rock, twisting in the current.

Difficult for the river to have torn that off; Sam must've shucked it, to swim against the current. Which means he's conscious—or was; ice water is unforgiving.

Retreating to the edge of the bank, Dean continues forging downstream. Around the  
bend, the riverbed flattens out to wide, rocky shallows. He's just started picking his way over the ice-slicked gravel when there's the snap of a cracking branch from the bank behind him, barely loud enough to be heard over the rippling river.

Dean freezes, swears under his breath as he reaches back for his gun. Not that pistol will do him a damn bit of good against Wendigo No. 3—he left the flare gun and the rest of the weapons bag back uphill. Since when did these things hunt in packs, anyway? Unless Asa Fox's five wasn't such a tall tale after all—

There's another rustle, and Dean doesn't have time for this. Taking aim at the closest copse of trees up the bank, he shouts, "Come on—come and get me, you bastard!"

Movement—a flash of red-brown, and Dean's finger tightens on the trigger. But he stops himself from firing just in time, as an elk steps out of the brush. An enormous bull, with a full head of antlers, ten- or twelve-point at least and practically Sam's arm-span wide. It poses for an instant on the riverbank, antlered head held majestically high, turned so that one round dark glittering eye fixes on Dean.

Then the elk springs down, passing him almost close enough to touch, to bound across the river, hooves sending up white spray between the rocks. On the other side of the creek it stops for another instant. Lowers its head, not to drink, but to sniff at something in the snow.

Among the gray snow and gray stone, the larger gray shape on the other side of the river was camouflaged; Dean could've missed it entirely, if not for that swatch of dark hair.

"Sam!" Dean hollers. The elk jerks up, shakes its antlers at him and gallops off into the woods. But Sam doesn't move.

Dean wades across the river, heedless of the muddy churn splashing over the top of his boots. If he steps on the larger stones, it barely comes up past his calves, and then he's across.

Sam made it mostly out of the water, but is lying face-down in the snow along the icy bank. He still doesn't move when Dean takes his shoulders and rolls him over. The streak of pink-tinged water dripping down his cheek darkens to bright red when Dean brushes his sodden hair aside, dark strands plastered over a bloody cut across his forehead. The wendigo hadn't gotten a hit in, so that's probably thanks to the rocks in the river.

And could be why he's out, but it might be the water—when Dean presses his cold fingers to the icy skin of Sam's throat, he thinks he feels the fly-wing flutter of a pulse, but his chest's not moving. "Come on, Sam," Dean says, his hoarse voice loud over the gurgle of the river and the snow-stilled forest. "Job's over, about time we're heading home—hot cocoa, splash of Fireball, wouldn't that hit the spot? Sammy, come on, don't do this—"

He pounds Sam's chest with both fists, once, twice—third's the charm; Sam convulses, coughs. Dean rolls him over onto his side, hand under his head to keep his face off the snow, as Sam chokes up a lungful of river water, then sags back to the ground, heavy and limp. His cheeks are white and his lips are turning blue, and the lids over his closed eyes.

But he's breathing, when Dean puts his hand over his chest. "Good," Dean tells him, "Doing great, Sam, you just keep that up."

They're only half a mile from the car, and an hour yet until sundown. That counts as lucky, by Winchester house rules. Dean wrestles Sam's floppy limbs over his back, pulling him up into a fireman's carry, legs over his shoulders and head hanging down his back. Then he pushes to his feet.

It takes him a couple tries to get upright, between Sam's mass—how can someone that lanky be so goddamn heavy?—and Dean's hurt leg. The scratch is making its presence felt, burning along his calf—but he's going to be freezing it anyway, heading back across the river. "Better than an icepack, right, Sammy?" Dean says, and starts for the water.

He crossed on submerged stepping stones on the way over, but balancing on them now would be too risky, with the burden of his brother. Sam can't afford to get wet again; he's shivering but only sporadically, in jerky pained spasms, and his freezing, damp clothes are soaking through Dean's jacket. He needs to get back to the car to warm up. But this is the best spot to cross; further down the river gets deeper again.

Dean grits his teeth, takes a deep breath and marches into the water.

He'd thought he was numb enough for it not to make a difference now, especially with his jeans frosting over anyway—but the splash of the water rising past his knees burns like acid. Dean doesn't stop himself from cursing it out—no one here to hear anyway, and Sam had once told him something he'd read in a psych journal, that swearing helps with handling pain.

The water's chill sucks the last feeling from his feet; they might as well be wooden blocks under him, weighted down by his boots. Halfway across the river he stumbles on the gravel bed, manages only just in time to catch himself before going down into the water, and Sam with him. He lands on his bad leg, adding an extra burn to the raw agony of the cold. "Damn it to hell!" Dean hollers at nothing at all, panting for breath as he shifts his weight to his other leg, then drags the hurt one forward, through the pulling water. Puts it down, carefully on the slick gravel, and takes another step. "Okay, Sam—I admit it—I didn't miss this."

No answer. But when Dean shifts his shoulder, he registers the faint movement of Sam's chest against his back. Still breathing. That'll do.

A white dot wafts across Dean's line of sight, and he thinks he's seeing stars for a moment—but it doesn't vanish when he tries to blink his vision clear. Floats down to the rippling water, lingers for an instant on the surface and then melts away.

Dean can't chance off-balancing them by tipping back his head, but he rolls his eyes upwards, to see the flurry of snowflakes drifting down from the gray sky. "Of course," Dean mutters, hitching his shoulders to adjust Sam's living but limp weight. "Didn't I tell you, Sammy, not to t-trust any weather report that wasn't given by a sexy blonde. Or brunette—I'm not p-picky. But we'll be under the trees anyway—don't worry about it."

He pauses, but his brother has no comment. "Good," Dean tells him. Pushes his leg forward against the water, floating ice chunks bumping his shin, and then his other leg. Almost there. "J-just half a mile after this," Dean says. His teeth are chattering; he clamps his jaw, promises through them, "Hang in there, Sam, have you back in the car in no t-time. Got a thermos of coffee, dry clothes—sounds great, huh? Nothing like a cold day to make you appreciate a warm car. Just a little further to go..."

* * *

The world is spinning, turning over itself. Water, Sam remembers; he'd fallen into the river, is fighting to swim against the current rolling him over. He holds his breath, thrashes his arms against the waves and ice—

Only there is no water, his arms slicing through the air without resistance, until his hand smacks into the ground.

He hears a groan, but it's not his own; too far away. Then a gasped, "Sam!"

"Dean?" Sam sucks in a breath, nearly chokes on it. Coughing, he drags open his eyes. Nothing to see but blank white, until he rolls his head back. Crusted ice grates under his hair as he blinks up at the black branches spreading above him.

"Sam?" Dean says again. "Are you with me? Geeze, sorry—you didn't hit your head again, did you?" and there's a scrabbling behind him, more crunching snow.

Laboriously Sam pulls his arms under himself, enough to push himself up sitting. It's a mistake; the change in elevation makes his head spin, the ground under him ripple like he's still in the river.

"Sammy?" Dean's hand grabs his arm, rough and hurried; then more gently brushes back the hair off his forehead. Even that light touch hurts; Sam winces, bats his brother's arm away, and Dean mutters an apologetic expletive.

"What—what hap-ppened?" Sam asks, the words coming out in a stutter as he shivers. He doesn't even feel that cold, but he's shaking. When he wraps his arms around his chest, he hears the crackle of ice coating his clothes. That his hands are too numb to feel it probably isn't a good sign.

The trouble he's having focusing on Dean's face probably isn't too great, either. Squinting one eye mostly shut solves the double vision, enough for him to make out his brother's pale, drawn expression.

"Another wendigo turned up," Dean says. "Which we roasted—and then you celebrated by joining the Minnesota Polar Bear Club."

Sam shakes his head. "No, they swim in b-bathing suits."

Dean doesn't even roll his eyes, which gives Sam an idea how dire things really are. "The river didn't take you too far, but one of the rocks got you," Dean says, pointing at Sam's sore forehead, careful not to touch. "Now we're heading back to the car to warm up—I was hauling your heavy ass, but I tripped. So can you get up, so we can get moving?"

"Right," Sam says. Braces his arms, hands planted on the snow, straightens his elbows and levers himself to kneeling, then to standing. He sways in the rush of dizziness, locks his knees to keep vertical.

Dean pushes upright, too, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder to steady him. Sam leans into it, not even trying to pretend he isn't, grateful for the support. He's shivering harder now, but still doesn't feel it; his feet drag like his shoes are lead but his head feels like it's filled with helium, threatening to float off his neck.

At his first stumbling step, Dean pokes him, points with the hand not gripping Sam's shoulder, his arm cutting across Sam's view of the snowy ground. "That way."

Dean's sense of direction is pretty reliable, and right now Sam is having a hard enough time remembering which way is up. He turns his feet towards where Dean indicates, starts moving.

The snow drifting down from the sky is slowly covering the icy crust fallen days or weeks before, muting their footsteps. At his side, Dean is talking, "Not that much further, we'll be seeing my baby any minute—hopefully won't have to dig her out of too much of this crap—you're doing great, Sammy, just a little more ways to go—" Low and steady, the voice of calm in an emergency.

"Dean," Sam says, "it's okay. I'm okay. I wasn't even shot this time, right?"

It's a joke but it's one intended to get through, and does by the convulsive tightening of the hand on his arm. But Dean makes an obvious effort to pitch his voice light, as he replies, "Sure, just keep tempting fate, what could go wrong?"

"Hey, you were the one who was missing this," Sam says. "Isn't this just like old times?"

Dean snorts, adjusts his grip on Sam's arm and says, "Okay, I shouldn't have jinxed us either. Not until we were out of the woods."

"Literally," Sam says, and snorts at his own wit, cheap as it is. He's still lightheaded, tethered to the ground more by Dean's hand on his shoulder than his tripping feet, but it's getting harder to drag his body along, every lurching step taking more effort.

Dean is talking again—still? Sam tries to concentrate through the increasing buzz in his ears, or maybe in his head, vibrating against his skull. It's possible he's not quite as okay as he's willing himself to be.

Dean bumps into his shoulder—not intentionally, stumbling himself over the uneven ground, all the more treacherous for the smooth blanket of snow growing over it. "Sorry, he says, steadying both of them and then giving Sam a push to get him moving again. "There was, I dunno, gopher hole? A badger? Do they have badgers around here? Hey, if a badger eats another badger, does it become a badger wendigo?"

Sam would shake his head, if he had the energy to lift it. As it is, he saves his strength to keeping walking, listening to Dean's distracting, distracted ramble. "That second wendigo was on the small side—you think it was a woman, you know, originally? Maybe they were a couple, got stranded out here. Colonials, or Indians—yeah, I know, Native Americans. Damn but it was fast, though. Never seen one move that quick. Or else we're getting slower? Nah, couldn't be. But seriously, Asa Fox took on five? You think that was total BS, or could he have..."

But the river is rising again, the rush of its currents louder than Dean's voice, or the muffled crunch of the snow under their boots. It's pulling at Sam, dark water dragging him under. Not suffocating but soothing, and he lets himself drift in it—only for a little while, enough to regain his strength—

A bruising discomfort along his chest drags Sam back to awareness. Over the buzzing in his ears, Dean is complaining, "Come on, Sam, no sleeping on the job . You gotta—we have to get up—almost there, but I can't—I can't do this myself—"

Dean's breath is catching, short with pain, and that pulls Sam awake more effectively than the knuckles against his sternum. "Dean?" He squints at the silhouetted shape of his brother leaning over him, trying to discern whether it's his vision going dimmer, or the sky past the trees above them. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm fine," Dean says, too quickly, then winces—less hurting than chagrinned, caught out. "Just, my damn leg's giving out," and he waves, irritably, at the red blood showing against the frosted-over gray of his jeans. "Free ride's over, sorry, Sammy," and he was probably trying for that to sound flippant more than guilty.

Sam lets Dean have it. Lets it go with his own guilt—he should have realized it sooner, that Dean wasn't just steadying him. Propping each other up like always—Sam only needs to do his part. He takes a deep breath, grabs his brother's shoulder to push himself up to his knees and then pulls Dean up with him. Bracing against one another, they struggle to standing.

Dean leans against him, heavily, lips pressed flat over the lines of pain gathered around his mouth. Sam's head is spinning, but he stays vertical—has to; if he falls, so does Dean. Dean takes a limping step, and Sam matches it, then another, falling into uneven stride together.

After a few steps Dean starts talking again, forced out in short breaths, through chattering teeth, "No way it was five. Two, maybe, if they were together and he got the drop on them. Maybe three, if he had a chance to set up a t-trap. But five, by himself? Unless it wasn't by himself...maybe his friend...or maybe he just...made it all up..."

Dean trails off, leaving no sound but their ragged panting and the snow crushed under their boots. Silent as before, but this time it's not prelude to an attack but the hush of the thickening snowfall.

It's too easy to get lost in that peace. With his head hanging down, Sam can't see much but his own feet, grudgingly carrying them forward. With their footsteps left behind them, the snow ahead is clear—blank white, turning blue in the deepening shadows. If the sun hasn't set behind the clouds, then it's going to soon.

"You were right," Sam says—or thinks he does; like their footprints, they hobble past the words so quickly that by the time the last one falls from his mouth, he's not positive he said any of them. And Dean doesn't answer.

He tries again. "Dean? You were right."

"About what?" Dean says. "Because—that crap about no better way to go—didn't mean this—"

"No," Sam says, "This—I missed this."

"You—" They're freezing and exhausted and barely staying upright, but Dean's bark of laughter is sharp enough to echo between the frosted trees, before it catches in a hitched breath. "You're c-crazy. And too d-damn cold."

"Not _this_ ," Sam says. "But this. Hunting. Stopping monsters and saving people from them. We do good."

They tramp a few more steps, Sam wondering how many of those words made it out, before Dean finally says, "Yeah. We do."

* * *

Sam is still walking, but Dean's not sure for how much longer. He stopped replying to Dean's ever-hoarser voice a few steps back, though he's still stumbling along, with all of Sam's wildly stubborn will, almost dragging Dean along for all Dean's supposed to be leading the way. As well he can, with the woods getting darker as evening approaches, and the snow covering the trail they'd broken on the way in.

But they're going the right direction. They have to be. Any second now he'll see the car through the trees, his baby's sexy black curves. Just a few more steps to go.

With the growing snow cover, Dean doesn't see what he trips on. Not until it's too late. His foot catches on a root or a branch or a rock—his bad leg, searing pain shooting up and down, and Dean yells out, overbalances. He grabs instinctively for Sam's support, and takes them both down.

The snow is drifting deep enough that the fall doesn't really hurt, or maybe Dean's cold-numbed body doesn't register the bruises. Small mercies but he'll take them. His leg is throbbing, but the pain clears his head.

Sam isn't moving—face-down in the snow, like he was face-down on the river bed, but he wheezes a breath when Dean rolls him over. His frost-glazed eyelashes stay closed, though, even when Dean lightly slaps his cheek, and the white skin doesn't redden.

"C-come on, Sam," Dean says, cajoling, "you g-gotta get up—told you, I c-can't carry you—" He shakes his brother's shoulder but Sam's head just lolls back limply. The scabbing wound on his forehead shows dark against his gray face.

Dean grits his teeth, goes to drag Sam up, but while he can get his brother's arms over his shoulder, he can't pull him up further. Not when his leg won't brace, folding under him like an overcooked noodle, even when Dean jams it against a tree stump. The shaking of his hands as shivers rack his body doesn't help.

He sinks down into the snow, Sam slumped half across his lap. Sam is barely shivering at all, for all the ice stiffening his clothes and white snowflakes collecting in his hair.

But for Dean's panting breaths, it's quiet—the snow's smothering peace, worse in its way than the stillness before the wendigo's attack. That was only an interruption, tense and brief; this silence stretches, extends. No walls around them, just trees; but the wideness of the forest is hidden behind the white barrier of the falling snow, and he can't move more than a few feet. Might as well be back behind bars again.

"No," Dean says—aloud, and though it's been a few weeks since they got out, the low rasp of his own voice still is weird to him, after so long not hearing it. More obviously now, when Sam's not replying. "No, this is stupid—we're the frigging Winchesters; if we didn't get taken out by those wendigos then we're sure as not going down to some stupid flurries! You got that?"

The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up—he's far too cold to recognize a chill, but that electric instinct could be claustrophobic paranoia, or could be reaction to something unseen. One hand fisted in Sam's collar, Dean fumbles for his gun, curling his cold-stiffened fingers around the .45's familiar grip by instinct more than touch. He draws it, aimed at the sky but ready as he scans the mutely falling snow. "You hear me? If any of you Reapers are out there—you saw what happened to the last one of you that tried to mess with us. You know what's good for you, you'll keep your distance. Unless you want to help, give us a lift back—no? Didn't think so."

There's no answer. Lowering the gun, Dean bends over Sam, gives him another shake, tries rubbing his sternum again. If he can just wake Sam up, they can get up, get out of here. They're so close. But Sam's not moving.

Still breathing, though. Dean can't feel his breath, not enough warmer than the wind scattering snowflakes through the trees; but he has to be.

If a Reaper does come, where will their souls get taken? Upstairs, downstairs, or are they still agreed to drop them into the Empty?

Wherever; it doesn't matter. "You're not getting out of this that easy," Dean tells his brother. "We've got that nephilim, and whatever hammer's gonna come down on Cas, not to mention those British dicks. And this—more things to hunt, more people to save—work to do, Sammy, or else I'm going to have to drag you back from wherever some damn Reaper dumps you, and we don't have time for that."

It's getting darker, evening falling—temperature's probably falling, too, though Dean's past being able to tell. "Not to mention, Cas is going to kill us, after he did all that...and Mom, what's she gonna say? Come on, Sam," and he rubs Sam's shoulder, trying to impart warmth by friction, if not from his own chilled skin. "Just—get up already..."

Maybe that crunch to his left is snow falling off a tree branch, or maybe it's something else—Dean hauls up the gun, hauls up his head, both heavier than a semi-truck. He doesn't see anything through the trees in the gathering twilight. If there's another wendigo—he bends over Sam, pulls him closer with his free arm, shielding that lanky body as much as he can. If there's another wendigo, it'll have to get through him, before it gets a claw on Sam.

Another crunch—then a snorting huff. A blast of hot breath ruffles Dean's hair—the warmth is shocking, but the smell is strangely sweet instead of rotting. He jerks up his head, jaw set, ready for the pain of the monster's teeth.

Then his mouth drops open, as he sees what's staring down at him. "What the fu—"

* * *

Sam wakes to find he can't move—trapped, bound, tied down. A voice in his ear says his name, but it can't be Lucifer, because he's not in the Cage; he's never going back there. If he opens his eyes he'll just see blank concrete walls and the humming fluorescent light overhead, same as yesterday and the day before and before that—but it's not Hell, it's not even that basement with the blowtorch and the needle—so then why can't he move—

He manages to wrench one arm free, rams his elbow back and hits, not a concrete wall, but something softer, that gives way with an explosive, " _Oof_ —damn it—"

His wrist is trapped again, pulled down—not a manacle but a callused hand, rough and sweltering. Even rougher is the voice in his ear, gasping, not Lucifer's smooth deceit, "Snap out of it, Sammy!"

Sam pauses in his struggling. "Dean?"

"You with me?" Dean sounds out of breath, wheezing for air. "Not—gonna hit me again?"

"...No?" Sam hazards, and Dean's scalding grip on his wrist loosens, releasing his arm. He can still barely move otherwise, though, resistance thicker than water or snow when he tries. That paralysis might not be such a bad thing—his limbs are prickling with thousands of pins and needles and his head is pounding, hard enough that it might fall off his neck if he rocked it too far back, except he can't. It's already tilted back, resting against a pliant surface behind him. Rustle of cloth against his hair as he turns it, and the creak of vinyl as he shifts.

It takes him a moment to ascertain he's actually opened his eyes, when shadows and darkness are all there is to see. Another moment to distinguish the roaring in his ears, as loud as the rushing river but such a familiar sound that he almost didn't notice it at all. He's fallen asleep and woken up to that growl all his life.

Sam lies still, evaluating. Trying to make sense of the divergent pieces—the Impala's engine, the smell of gunpowder and motor oil, the ragged hems of the blankets wrapped around him, Dean behind him. Finally gives up. "Dean...where are we?"

"In the car," Dean says, and he's gotten enough of his breath back to sound concerned.

"But...you're not driving?"

"Nope," Dean affirms, relaxing slightly.

"But the motor's running?"

"We had three-quarters of a tank," Dean said. "Enough to keep the engine warm for a few hours. Help should get here way before it runs out."

"Help?"

Dean hesitates, just a second. "Called Mom. Well, called Cas, and he said call Mom, since the bunker's too far for him to make it in time. She's also a ways out, but she knows a guy a couple hours away, with a truck, plow, the works. So he's coming over, and then we're out of here."

Sam blinks a few times, has another go at moving. His limbs are still trapped in the enfolding blankets and wedged against the bench seat, but he manages to turn a little to the side. At his back, Dean grumbles but shifts to accommodate, resettling his arms around Sam.

In the dim dashboard lights, there's not much to see besides more shadows. Then Dean leans forward, crowding against him to flick the steering wheel stem. The windshield wipers sweep past, clearing the deep gray outside the glass to blackness, flecked with glittering points.

"Snow's almost let up," Dean remarks.

Snowflakes, not stars, of course. Sam is shivering, jerky shudders—not reaction, involuntary reflex. "Here," Dean says, "drink up," and he passes over an open thermos.

Sam needs both hands, still under the blanket, to hold it steady, and the metal rim clacks against his teeth, but he manages a sip. The coffee is boiling on his tongue, and he nearly drops the thermos, gasps out, "H-hot."

"Yeah, not so much," Dean says. "You're still pretty freezing."

"R-right," Sam says. The thermos keeps it lukewarm at best, but that's almost too hot for his chilled tongue. Dean nudges him and he takes another seemingly scalding swallow.

Though he can't really feel it, he can hear the vents blasting warm air from the rumbling engine, the dryness chapping his lips. Under the blankets—the rough-spun, oil-stained covers they keep in the trunk and stuffed under the front seat—Sam wriggles his toes. They're tingling painfully, but that he can feel them all is an unexpected blessing.

No shoes or socks impeding them. And when he moves the blankets' coarse weave rubs against his skin. "Did you have to cut everything off?"

"The jeans, yeah," Dean says. "The shirt just lost a couple buttons. And the jacket you left in the river."

Sam sighs. The jeans' knees had nearly been worn through, but he'd liked that jacket. At least he's still got his boxers; they're a new pair.

The thermos, almost empty, is still heavy for his trembling hands. He extracts one arm from the blanket to put it down on the passenger seat floor—the vent blowing painfully hot on his bare skin, until he curls his arm back under the covers—then leans back against Dean's solid form behind him. Asks sleepily, "No jokes about who you'd rather be stripping?"

Dean's snort vibrates through his chest, against the back of Sam's head. "Considering that list's most of the planet, don't really have the time." He prods Sam in the ribs. "And no dozing off again, it's too quiet in here."

"So put on the radio."

Dean makes a token effort of shoving against Sam. "Can't reach the tape box."

For all the snow silently piled over the windows, it's not really quiet at all in the car, with the fans blowing and the engine rumbling. But that white noise is maybe a little too close to the hiss of ventilation, the hum of fluorescent lights, especially with his eyes shut. Sam opens them again, tries to sit up straighter—as best he can between the blankets and his arm wedged against the seat back, and his brother taking up more than his half of the bench seat, like Sam's a pre-teen again, fighting for his share of space.

To his credit, Dean tries to sidle back to give him more room. He grunts as he does, a short but pained noise, and Sam remembers. "Crap, your leg—" He twists to try to get a look at it, where Dean's got it stretched out into the driver's side. "Does it need—"

"It'll last me," Dean said. "Got it bandaged up, before it unfroze. How'd your head?"

Sam takes a moment to consider. "Sore, but not too bad." He can't see anything in the dark, but evaluates Dean's tone and decides he's not covering too much. Eases back on the seat, and asks, "So how did we get back here—how did you get me back here?"

For all Dean's dislike of the quiet, that shuts him up for a good few moments, before he says, "You don't remember?"

"Last thing I remember was going down in the snow...what?" Sam frowns. "What'd you do, Dean?"

"This time I didn't...you're sure? Nothing? Thought you were at least a little with it, you were mumbling..."

"Dean."

"Okay, hypothermia can mess with your head, right? Disorientation, confusion. So, if you didn't see it...maybe I just thought we were rescued by Bambi's dad."

Sometimes Sam thinks he's seen and done enough not to be surprised by anything anymore. It's surprising in itself, how often that's proved wrong. "A what?"

Dean sounds embarrassed. "Swear to—uh, whoever we're swearing to now—it was this freaking elk. Huge, easily six feet at the shoulder, antlers as wide as _your_ arms."

Under other circumstances Sam would know his brother was screwing with him. But in the dark, half-frozen, head aching and still dizzy, he can't quite see the joke. "...Like a moose?"

"Dude, I know moose—this wasn't."

"And it helped you?" Sam says. "Showed you the way to the car?"

Dean mutters something unintelligible over the engine and fans.

"What?" Sam asks.

Dean clears his throat, says louder, "Did a little more than that—it carried you."

"It...how'd a, um, an elk, pick me up?"

Reaching out of the blanket cocoon, Dean turns the fan down and says, low and quick, like he's trying to get it out before he loses his nerve, "I was sitting there in the snow, trying to wake you up, and I heard something coming—thought it was another wendigo, thought I—we—were done for. Then I look up and there's this gigantic elk staring me in the eye. And—I'm not bullshitting you, I swear—it kneels down in the snow, like it's waiting for some Disney prince, and nudges me. And I—I don't know, I was freezing, and you weren't—I got you onto its back, and then it stood up—let me grab its shoulder, to pull me up too. It was so warm, too, its breath...could feel my fingers again, holding onto its hide. Then it walked us here, to the car. Waited until we were inside and I'd gotten the blankets out, then took off, back into the woods."

Dean stops talking. Waits.

"...Okay," Sam says finally, because Dean can face angels and demons without flinching, but his unnerved tension now is practically rattling the window out of the door frame. "That's...different."

"Even for us," Dean says. "Hell, I probably was imagining it. Dreaming up the elk I saw before—"

"You saw it before?"

"Just a few hours ago—on the river, when I found you. Looked like the same one, except it was probably real then, and this time..."

"This time..." Sam shakes his head. "So how did you get me back here, if it wasn't real?"

"Adrenaline? Makes more sense than a..."

"A spirit?"

"A spirit?" Dean groans. "Not enough that I'm seeing giant deer—a giant _ghost_ deer?"

"Not that kind of spirit," Sam says. "I don't think elk even live in this state anymore. But the Chippewa have been trying to reintroduce them—and the Lakota considered the wapiti to be symbols of strength and power. If this was some kind of forest protection spirit..."

"So not Bambi, Princess Mononoke?" Dean shakes his head. "But we're white men, we're not even from these parts—why would it help us?"

"Don't know. Maybe it didn't like the wendigos being here anymore than we did."

"Right," Dean says.

"It wouldn't be the first friendly thing we've met," Sam says. "You know we're not alone out here."

Dean hesitates. Finally just says, "I know," and that's progress.

The pins and needles in Sam's toes, throughout his limbs, are receding, slowly replaced by warmth instead of pain, and that's progress of a different sort, no less encouraging. If a mystical forest guardian saved him from frostbite, Sam will take it.

Saved him, and his brother. Sam lets himself slouch back against Dean. It's not as comfortable as the passenger seat, worn to his shape; and his legs bent against the door are going to be excruciatingly stiff when he can straighten them. But the close quarters are warmer, and Sam's not much inclined to move now anyway.

Before Dean has to nudge him verbal again, Sam says, "I was thinking."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, with only a little trepidation.

"About Asa Fox—those five wendigos."

Dean sighs. "You think it's possible? I always thought they were solo monsters, but if he found a pack—one guy against all of them, though, when just these two kicked our asses...You think we're getting old, Sammy?"

"Probably," Sam says, "but if it was a pack—these two, they were a couple, you were guessing. So five...could have been a family? A mother or father, stranded in the wilderness—trapped under snow—with their four children, desperate to feed them..."

"Damn," Dean says. "That's morbid, even for you. ...So Asa maybe took out one big wendigo and four little ones?"

"Could be?"

Dean is quiet, considering. "That might've been harder. Smaller means faster. And also, just, if you saw them, you'd know..."

"I know," Sam says.

"So does that make him more hardcore, or...?"

"No idea. It's not like it's a competition, anyway." Sam folds his arms across his chest. Leans back slightly, deliberately, and Dean jostles him back, a token resistance. Not enough to actually move him off, but definitely there. "How much longer before this guy with the truck gets here?" Sam asks.

"About an hour, maybe? Depending on how bad the roads are." Dean shivers, more from chill than feeling, reaches to turn the heater fan back up. "And look, the snow's stopped."

"Lucky us," Sam says.

"Yeah, we are," Dean replies, with not a hint of sarcasm. And Sam would chuckle, except for how he knows exactly what his brother means.


End file.
